Under the Mistletoe
by Naz
Summary: America throws a holiday party with mistletoe, hoping for entertaining results. What he gets aren't exactly the results he was hoping for.


1.

"Ah, America," Lithuania said, poking his head around the corner, hands full of ivy. "Where did you want me to put this...?" He held the ivy up; a long tendril fell to the floor and he watched it go.

America turned his head, whatever he was holding still blocked from sight. "Oh, just, y'know, up and down the banister." He scrunched his face slightly. "You really don't have to help me set up. I mean... not that I don't appreciate it, it's just, since you don't work for me anymore..."

Lithuania would have waved away the other man's words, but he might've hit him in the face with the ivy. "No, no, that's all right. I enjoy it." He smiled. He had misread or misremembered the date for America's holiday party this year, and had ended up coming the day before the actual event. America was behind in his decorating; something wholly unusual, considering the past few years. "Anyway," Lithuania continued, nodding toward the blond, "what exactly are you hiding there?"

A smile stretched across America's face: the smile of a sneaky, mischievous child. He turned around, revealing--

"Mistletoe!" he announced with much fanfare.

"Mistletoe," Lithuania repeated, cocking an eyebrow.

"Don't tell anybody, okay?" America said, his voice dropping to a whisper, as though the house were bugged. "I thought it'd be funny to use it this year. See who gets caught underneath." His grin grew as he spoke, dangling a sprig from one hand. "And, I mean, you know how people end up acting at this thing. It's like England has this rule where he just _can't go home sober_." He returned the sprig to the rest of its brethren nestled in America's arms, and Lithuania felt himself fearing for them all. "Ah," he managed, "that's... quite an idea..."

"Innit?" America said brightly, oblivious to Lithuania's trepidation. "I'm gonna go start hanging them where _nobody_'ll expect them. Remember"-- he held a finger to his lips-- "don't tell~. And just hang that ivy on the banister."

Lithuania nodded, smiling after the other man as he walked away. Then he wilted a little. This year's party was either going to be interesting or a total, embarrassing wreck, and he wasn't exactly looking forward to finding out which.

2.

The next day, the day of the party, was spent in a flurry of activity. Both Lithuania and America were so busy that Lithuania very nearly forgot about the mistletoe. That was, until he thought he saw some lurking out of the corner of his eye. He turned quickly, but there was nothing there.

"God help us all," he murmured to himself. "It's _alive_."

America was skipping around his house whistling cheerily, getting everything in order. He skipped past Lithuania and gave him a wink as he bounced on his merry way. The other man attempted a smile; it came out as more of a grimace. He usually wasn't one for rowdy, drunken happenings, and now there would be the added stress of The Obviously Sentient Mistletoe, lurking, moving, searching for prey. Lithuania couldn't suppress a shudder.

A few guests arrived early. Canada was the first, although Lithuania did need a little memory refresher as to the nation's name. His polar bear began poking around the bar, which was filled with alcoholic drinks of every variety, and was manned by Tony. Lithuania thought the little alien looked rather sharp in his tuxedo. He wasn't so sure about how the whale looked in his....

"'Sup, Mattie!" America greeted his neighbor/brother thing, slinging an arm around his shoulders. "Happy Holidays and all that jazz. Are ya thirsty?"

"Er, maybe for some cola?" Canada ventured, eyeing the bar with trepidation. "America, isn't than an awful lot of..."

"Booze?" America turned to look at the display of drinks and blinked. He shrugged a little. "Well, I mean, you know... I have to make sure I've got stuff England'll like, and I have to make sure I don't have pansy beers or else Germany and Prussia'll bitch me out, and _then_ I have to have classier drinks for people like Austria... and I highly doubt Russia drinks anything other than vodka."

A little bead of sweat slid down Canada's cheek. "Do you _want_ everyone to get ragingly drunk? It's not wise to promote alcoholism..."

"I'm not," America insisted, waving a hand a little dismissively. "I'm just helping people loosen up a little. You know. And catering to their tastes." He adjusted his tie and lifted his head; both Canada and Lithuania would afterwards swear that there was a sparkle involved.

Guests began to trickle in, and soon the house was full of people and music and lights, and the drink flowed freely, and no one knew anything about any psychotic killer mistletoe lurking in the shadows. America sauntered around, conversing, checking on people, keeping Sealand out of the bar (although a steadily reddening England was doing better at that, even with his words starting to slur). He frowned a little bit, though, and glanced around. He hadn't seen anyone get caught yet. And of course, he looked and listened for the signs: for the cries of embarrassment and agony, for the sound of Japan and Hungary's cameras clicking, for the sight of two blushing nations locked in a passionate embrace--

"Whoo, self," America murmured, putting a hand to one red cheek, and scooting out of doors to go cool down for a moment.

In the shadows, something moved.

3.

The air outside was clear, invigorating-- and freezing cold. America didn't mind too much; there was a halo around the moon, which meant that maybe snow would happen this year. He bounced around outside a little, and was just about to turn to go back inside (& have something warm), when a voice came from behind:

"Oh, are you cold?"

He tilted his head back, frowning slightly, and could just see Russia in the corner of his eye. There was just enough of that lilting singsong in the other man's voice to make America grind his teeth a little. He spun around on his heel and offered a bright, if not exactly genuine smile, "Ruh- shaaa," he said, leaning forward a little. "How are you tonight?"

"Very warm," said the other man, his trademark smile still in place. America squinted a little against the backlit figure of Russia; after a moment he could see that his cheeks were flushed. "It is very nice, though."

America opened his mouth to say something, but then he heard the rustling. He stopped, mouth hanging open unattractively, as he listened. "Did you hear that?" he whispered.

"Mmm?" Russia hummed, but even in the dim light America could see his eyes grow more alert.

They stood there, listening, until the party inside the house seemed to fade away. Everything seemed still-- too still.

America was just about to breathe a sigh of relief when the rustling came again, and he leapt back about a foot and almost crashed into Russia, and he tripped over a rock, and reflexively reached out to grab Russia's arm to stop his fall, taking the other by surprise, and then America grabbed frantically for Russia's scarf, and Russia had to grab him around the waist--

--and America looked above them.

Hanging right over them, dangling from a small tree, in a place he could have _sworn_ he hadn't hung any of the stuff, was a sprig of mistletoe. He felt the blood drain from his face. He wondered where it all went. The mistletoe dangled at him, mocking him.

Russia blinked, confused; then he too looked up. "Ah?" was all he said, and America could have strangled him. "Move!" he hissed, still off balance. "Move, before it senses us!"

The looked he received clearly showed that the Russian thought the American was mental. "'Senses us,' America?" Russia asked, a tiny frown on his lips. (So his expression _did_ change. America had been wondering.) "It is a plant. It isn't even attached to the tree, so it is not alive..."

America wiggled impatiently. The mistletoe dangled at them.

"N-- not like it's any biggie," he said finally, after a silence filled with trepidation and fear (for him) and utter confusion (for Russia). He tried to lift himself up, to gain his feet again. Russia smirked a little. "You are deterred by a little hanging plant?" he said, the singsonging tone back again. "The United States of America, frightened by a tiny plant..."

America felt his face go hot, and he glared at Russia, and then he glared at the mistletoe (it dangled), and, with a precursory glance to make sure _nobody saw at all_, he yanked on the scarf and got it over with.

"There," he huffed, then pulled himself back to his feet. He straightened his suit, cracked his neck without meaning to, and hurried back indoors, without even a glance backward. He didn't want to have to look Russia in the face ever, _ever_ again. Every boss man from here on out would just have to deal with the fact that America would be living in sunglasses.

The mistletoe dangled in displeasure. That wouldn't do. That wouldn't do at _all_.

4.

It was loud and crowded inside the house, and very warm. America tugged at his shirt collar, loosening the tie and running a hand through his hair. He was a mess.

Figuring he should straighten up before people began inquiring, he headed for a small powder room down the hall. It was, thankfully, empty and still clean. He didn't bother shutting the door; there was really no need. He combed his hair with a hand and splashed water on his face, looking myopically at his reflection-

-and the smidge of green behind him.

He spun around, flinging water from his face and dripping bangs and spraying the walls like blood in a horror movie. There, in the corner of the small box room, was a sprig of mistletoe. It dangled mockingly at him. No, no, this wasn't like a horror movie. This was _worse_ than any horror movie or book America had ever seen or read. It was like something out of Poe.

America's heart pounded as he frantically wiped his face dry and set his glasses back on his face. Just then- his luck was stellar- Russia appeared in the doorway. "Ah, America, England seems to be asking for you. I think you ran out of his favorite liquor-"

"_Shit,_" America said eloquently, pushing the other man out of the doorway and up against the outside wall. "Don't, _don't_ come in here!" Russia blinked in confusion; he couldn't see the mistletoe at all from where he was. America slammed the door behind him and locked it. He would deal with that sprig later.

That sprig... That was only one. His eyes widened as he realized: only one Mistletoe was locked within the powder room. He had hidden them all over the house.

"Oh, God," he whimpered, leaning against the wall.

Just then, England's drunken ravings could be heard down the hall. America sighed and pushed himself up off the wall. At least, he figured, a drunken England he could deal with. Maybe.

"'Mer'ca!" England exclaimed as he appeared. Green eyes blinked widely. "Why're there two of y- Ohh, one's th' Russian!" England leaned on America heavily, staring at him closely with unfocused eyes. "God, boy, an' they're sayin' I look a mess. Y' look all sweaty an' ragg'd an' shit." He raised an empty glass, and, upon finding it empty, frowned and glared at it, then turned back to the younger man. "Thasswot I wanted t' talk t' y' 'bout- y' need t' learn t' stock up bet-er on y' drinks. 'M already out." He raised the drained glass as evidence. "Wot th' fuck'm I s'posed t' drink fer th' res' of th' night; I can' drink that vodka shit, 'cuz tha's for 'im." He gestured roughly in Russia's direction.

"Ummm." America looked around- oh, great, an audience? Why didn't these people mingle or something?- and caught Canada's eye. Canada shrugged and shook his head as if to say, _What did I tell you?_ "Look, old man, maybe you should-"

"Don' call me that!" England protested, swinging his arm at America and missing. "Sweet Jesus boy, who d'you think y' talkin' to; I may be aged well, bu' I'm no' _old_; I still go' it in me-"

"Okay, England, why don't you just have, um, some cola or something; yeah."

"Tha' shit'll rot y' teeth, boy! Look, my people may not 'ave the bes' teeth in th' world, an' my royalty may've 'ad a thing fer rottin' teeth back in th' day, but tha' don't mean I want y' damn fizzy pops." He pressed a finger into America's ribcage. America sighed, and was about to open his mouth, when he heard rustling from above.

A shiver ran down his spine.

"Look, really, England," he said, trying to keep the edge of panic out of his voice. "Seriously, dude, just... just sit down and maybe cool down a bit and drink some water or something and just-"

"I don' need t' fuckin' calm down," England protested, waving his cup in the air. "Y' need to be more courteous t' guests an' serve them better an'-" He whacked America enough that he stepped back a step or two, enough to make him bump into Russia.

Rustling. Everyone looked up to see a sprig of mistletoe right over America and Russia's heads. The room went dead silent.

"Ah?" Russia said. Lithuania's eyes went wide. Canada's jaw dropped. France wiggled his eyebrows. England took a few more seconds than everyone else to figure out what was going on.

"Oh, fuck," America whimpered.

5.

The silence, the eyes boring holes in America's face-- he looked frantically for a way out, but the mistletoe rustled and was that _expectation_ on people's faces? What were they, sick little voyeurs or something? Dinner and a floor show, is that what they were thinking?

There was a tap on his shoulder, and he slowly turned to face a smiling Russia. "Well, well, America," he said pleasantly. "It would appear that we must satisfy the masses."

"The hell kind of wording is that?" America breathed, feeling a lone drop of sweat slip down his face.

Predictably, it was England who broke the crowd's silence. "Th' fuck?" he exclaimed suddenly, and America's hopes soared. Maybe, just maybe, he could find a way out of this, thanks to England--

"What're y' doin', takin' so damned long?"

Okay, fuck, no, never mind. Those same soaring hopes were shot down, careening into America's stomach in balls of flame. He'd never been shot down before. Even worse, he could see agreement in the crowd gathered around: some nodded; others, it was clear in their eyes. They were taking too long, why didn't they just get it on already? Japan's camera was stealthily unsheathed. Russia smiled, a challenge and mocking in his eyes. The whole world had turned against America in the most unlikely way. He would've expected atomic bombs, invasions-- but not _this_, not the demand to kiss, _kiss_, KISS COME ON KISS KISS NOW DAMMIT--

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore England's obnoxious chanting, then turned and looked at Russia.

"I am not doing this. Don't try to stop me." And with that, he grabbed Russia's shoulders, pulled himself up, and somersaulted over him. England gaped, Russia blinked, and Canada's face acquainted itself with his palm. Hello, palm.

America ran.

6.

After a short moment, Canada felt that it was his sole duty, as neighbor and almost-brother-type-thing, to go after America. He glanced around, sighed, and jogged off in the direction the other had fled.

The trail went cold quickly. Some other nations had said they had seen America run past, but they couldn't tell Canada exactly where he might have gone. Canada had nearly given up when a decorated potted palm started hissing at him. He leapt about two feet away, plastering himself to the wall. "Psst, Canada!" the tiny palm whispered.

"Oh, God," he whimpered. "The plant knows my name."

"It's _me_, you goof!" The palm hissed. Canada's brow furrowed, then his mouth formed a knowing "O." He glanced around before dropping stealthily to the floor and scooting next to the palm-- and America.

"This is you ingenious hiding spot?" Canada asked, unimpressed. "Well," America said huffily, a bit hurt by the lack of impressedness, "it had _you_ fooled."

"How long are you planning on staying here?" Canada asked, drawing his legs up against his chest and circling them with his arms. America was silent, plucking dead leaves from the plant. There was tinsel in his hair. "I can't remember the last time you ran from something. Have you _ever_?"

America's eyes flashed a little. "I-- This is totally different!" he insisted, plucking a leaf with more vigor. "This isn't, like, fighting or protecting or doing heroic, good things. I mean, and, come on, it's _Russia_. And, just, I couldn't, _can't_--"

"Everyone will say you ran," Canada said mildly. "Everyone will make fun of you for it."

"I can't win."

Canada frowned. America seemed genuinely upset over the whole thing, and he didn't want to push him into it. Or maybe some secret little evil part of him did. "You can't hide at your own party."

"It's my party and I'll hide if I want to," America declared with a mighty pout, worthy of a hero of Herculean caliber. Canada's forehead hit his knees with the thick thunk of bone on bone.

"What I'm saying is, you've never run from anything before. This is mild compared to other stuff. Think of it as foreign policy. Good diplomatic relations. But you have to uphold your character and... prestige." He glanced over again at America, who had stilled and was looking pensive.

"You're right," he said finally, and with a sigh and a look of determination, scooted out from behind the potted palm and stood. Dead leaves mingled with the tinsel in his hair, and a smudge of dirt was on his nose. "Let's do this." He began to walk off, then stopped and turned. "How do I look?"

"Good," Canada said automatically. America nodded. "Awesome," he murmured. "Now to find a Russian and some mistletoe."

"Go get 'em, tiger," Canada deadpanned, as America strode off to complete his dire, dangerous task.

7.

America held his head high, his jaw set and his steps certain. No more running. He was a hero, a fighter. He would be extremely mortified come the morning, but he'd be damned if people said he'd _ran_.

Of course, now the mistletoe and Russia were nowhere to be found.

He stopped for a moment and looked around. Some nations were passed out by now, but somehow England was still going strong. Amazing, all things considered.

"'Mer'ca!" England exclaimed, seeing the younger man. He began to struggle to his feet, blinking owlishly. "Wh'r've y' been. Affer runnin' fr'm th' Rushun, nobody could seem t' fin' y'." His speech was ridiculously slurred, and America spared a thought for the Englishman's liver. "I wasn't running!" he insisted cheerfully, taking hold of England's arm and steering him back to a chair that was disconcertingly wet in places. "I had just forgotten something. But now that I remember, I'm ready to take Russia on. Have you seen him?"

"Sheen 'im?" England pulled a face that America guessed meant that he was thinking. America sighed, glanced around. This was stupid...

"Look, I'll get you some water, huh?" he said, patting England on the shoulder and rising. There was an empty pail of ice sitting on a nearby table, and he made his way towards it, scanning the ceiling.

And he conveniently bumped into Russia.

"You should watch where you are walking," the other man said, lifting an eyebrow. "Considering the night's events."

"Oh?" America said, a challenge in his voice. He puffed up a little. England heard the two and turned, stretching a hand out to point drunkenly at the Russian. "Oy, 'Mer'ca! I foun' Rusha!" he exclaimed proudly. America shook his head, almost burying his face in his hand. There was laughter around them.

And then the rustling.

America felt his stomach flip madly. _Be a hero, be a hero..._ Russia noticed the sound as well, and glanced up, then back down at the other man. "You have unfortunate luck tonight. Will we be seeing any more acrobatics?" He squinted. "You have dirt on your nose."

"No more acrobatics tonight," America murmured in a low tone. He glanced above their heads, where the mistletoe dangled like some bird of prey, set his jaw, drew a deep breath--

and kissed Russia full and deep on the lips.

Jaws dropped. Eyes widened. Drinks tipped over. Food was nearly choked on. An Englishman fell out of his chair. Cameras clicked. Hearts skipped beats. Somewhere, Sealand won a game of Yahtzee.

In the meantime, America, for all his utter nervousness and embarrassment, found that even with the vague taste of vodka on his lips, kissing Russia wasn't half as bad as he thought it would be. Wet, but not grossly so, and actually very warm. He found himself tugging lightly on the other's scarf. The parting almost felt stranger than the meeting.

"That wasn't so bad, actually," America finally said, trying to appear flippant. Russia smirked a little. "What was that about no more acrobatics tonight?" he asked, and America laughed.

Lithuania, off to the side, cocked an amused eyebrow as he walked up to Canada. Behind them, Japan and Hungary compared pictures and aided in stemming nosebleeds. "I wonder what got that to happen," he commented innocently, and Canada gave an embarrassed shrug.

The mistletoe rustled.

-

A/N:

Way back from Christmastime; done for the Hetalia Kink meme. Original request: "Every year in December America throws a Holiday party(not a Christmas party more of an open excuse to get together get drunk and get stupid party)for those that wish to attend. This year he's been sneaky and has added some mistletoe into the mix wanting people to get caught under it and have to kiss because he knows the results will be entertaining.

"Only problem is the only person that ends up getting caught under it is him...by Russia....repeatedly."

The inspiration for the mistletoe comes from the inimitable Shoebox Project; after Part Six, i have never seen mistletoe quite the same way ever again.


End file.
